


To Have You Is to Have the Stars

by takidaka



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Paris, Alternate Universe - World War II, Art, Drama & Romance, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-10-17 12:08:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10593702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takidaka/pseuds/takidaka
Summary: The year is 1944. Living in Paris, France, during the German occupation, well-known underground smuggler Yuuri Katsuki is presented with the opportunity to transport an important work of art across the city under the watch of La Résistance de Paris. Little does he know, however, that he would be moving the most important work of art in Western history--or that he would fall deeply in love with the leader of La Résistance himself.





	1. A Delivery

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys! I'm very excited to finally be posting the first chapter of this work. It's been an AU of mine I've been working on for a long time, and I'm so happy that I'm formally getting started with it!
> 
> Now, yes, there's a lot of history and French involved in this piece. So here are a few disclaimers:  
> 1) I do not claim to be an expert on history, but I try to do as much research as I can! Also please understand that this is a work of historical FICTION, and sometimes I really don't give a shit. :)  
> 2) I do not speak French, and rely largely on the internet and other speakers to help me! (Though I will always provide my translations in the lower notes section!)
> 
> Furthermore, I am a double major/double minor Honors student, so forgive me if my chapter updates aren't always on time. I will try to post weekly, but no promises--especially with finals coming up. (Ahaha. God help us all.) I am also a strong believer in making something GOOD rather than just getting it done, so trust me when I say the wait will be worth it! 
> 
> Also, please know that there may be adult content in later chapters. . . Explicit/offensive language, a little violence (it's WW2 y'all), maybe a lil' somethin'-somethin' here and there. . . So read at your own risk. ;)

It was dark and drizzling that night in Paris, and the dim moonlight filtering through the rainclouds was the only means of sight I had as I walked the damp streets.  
Where I was walking to, I had no true idea. I was nervous and shivering even under my long jacket and gloves, hand over the revolver I had loaded inside one of the pockets, and was warily meandering through the darkest patches of pathway I could find.  
It was a late January night in 1944. The wind was cold against my neck, despite the old, thick woolen scarf I had wrapped around me before I left. Dozens of broken boxes and debris from various buildings littered the streets, making it difficult for me to walk without much trepidation.  
Paris had been under German control for a little under four years. These streets, with their old cobblestones and architecture, had lost so much life since the Reich’s arrival; no longer did I cherish the light I felt radiating from the old street lanterns, or even the beauty of the city itself. It was no longer felt like France with those blasted men here—it was no longer my beloved Paris.  
I was used to sneaking cautiously around city at night, avoiding the Germans to make transactions and deliver prohibited materials to citizens all over the city. But tonight night was different. There was a frank nervousness, and a certain feeling of wariness that I couldn’t quite convince myself away from feeling. Though nobody was out here able to see me, I felt deep in my heart that someone was watching—or perhaps, waiting—for me to find them.  
I pushed back my bangs, which stuck damply against my forehead, and saw my breath form lightly as a cloud as I moved with trepidation through an alleyway. It probably didn’t help that I was supposed to deliver an unusually cryptic letter—even for me—and resided in other pocket of my jacket.  
It’d been given to me by a man not more than a few hours earlier that evening at the inn. I was manning the bar while Mari was checking guests in and out of the bedrooms. I’d just finished washing dishes after the dinner rush, and was handling an assortment of alcoholic containers when the old man come inside.  
He was tall, stout but not fat, and wore a faded but well-kept bowler hat over his grey hair. I remembered that I was drying the inside of a shot glass when he gruffly sat at the bar counter, at least three seats away from the nearest patron. He looked exhausted in a way that seemed like he’d had the life sucked out of him, and I walked over to him, wondering if he’d be a troublesome drunk by the later part of the night.  
“What can I get you, _monsieur?”_ I asked politely, walking over to talk his order after I put the glass away on its shelf. “We may not have a wide selection, but surely something here can suit your needs.”  
“Vodka?” He inquired, taking the hat off to reveal a balding head and a permanently furrowed expression.  
I nodded and reached under the counter, pouring a fair amount of the strong liquor into a glass for him, and setting it down near his folded hands.  
“Спасибо,” he replied, nodding his head slightly at me. After a generous swig, he leaned in closer and raised his eyebrows, speaking in a thick Russian accent. “Are you Yuuri Katsuki?”  
“Depends on who is asking.”  
The old man laughed dryly. “I understand that you foster an excellent delivery service here, among commercial trades.”  
After looking carefully around the nearby area, making sure no other patrons were interested in our conversation, I threw my dishrag on top of the counter and lowered my head onto my propped elbow. “For what kind of goods, exactly?”  
“It depends. How many people work for your postal service?”  
I gestured to my chest. “It encompasses none other than myself and my sister, who runs the books.”  
“You make all the deliveries yourself? On foot? Across the entire city?” The old man asked, looked surprised but moderately impressed. “Even for a young lad like you, that’s quite the athletic venture.”  
“I was trained for almost ten years at the Paris Opera Ballet. And we do what is necessary to protect the privacy of our clients, _monsieur,”_ I replied lightly, bowing slightly at his compliment.  
“I see.” He passed me a fair number of francs for the glass and slipped a letter into my hands, which was sealed with wax and an impression of a _fleur de lis._ “That is all I needed to know. Here. The location is on the card I just handed you. You are to deliver it to, and only to, a man named Viktor Nikiforov.”  
My eyebrows rose in confusion. “What if he is not available? And just where—”  
The old man smiled faintly. “An old student of mine. He’s very important.”  
_“Monsieur,_ I do not—“  
“Trust me, boy,” he interrupted. “You do not have to undertake this if you do not wish. But if you manage to get this to him, and tell him it’s from Yakov, you will receive a very pleasant reward—though not a single franc until it is done.” With that, he slipped off of the barstool, leaving me slack-jawed as he turned to leave. “Давай.”

And that is how I came to be walking alone in the dark streets of Paris that rainy evening. Though my sister initially was against me attempting to deliver the letter, the mentioning of a high reward seemed to change her mind rather quickly—the roof of the inn was starting to rot, and repairs were needed before the spring storms set in, lest the last little bit of our income be lost.  
Eventually, the light rain let up, and the clouds parted slightly to reveal a half-full moon. I’d just passed through the heavily German-occupied area of downtown, where several innkeepers had indeed given into providing shelter for the soldiers, and was grateful that the extra moonlight had only appeared now that I was past the area. Though my hair was black, as well as my clothing, I always worried that the glint of my glasses or some other object would reflect light and attract unwanted attention—which unhelpfully caused me to wander around without vision correction on some jobs.  
I’d finished everything on my queue except for that final, mysterious letter. Now, following the card, I found myself twisting in and out of small alleyways and tiny streets, unable to predict where exactly I was going.  
The writing on the slip of paper I was given was barely legible, and consisted largely of arrows pointing in directions with a street name listed here or there. I wandered in and out of streets, up and down stairs, and even into somebody’s winter-bitten backyard at some point. It was obviously written in such a way that only a Parisian would probably be able to figure it out; and while I was glad that I was comfortable with the streets, I began to grow increasingly anxious as I wondered how important the recipient of the letter must be to warrant such secrecy.  
Finally, I ended up at the backdoor of an old, worn-down building on a raggedy edge of the city. It was obvious that the Germans had raided this area fairly thoroughly; my younger memory reminded me of the times when the chipped and broken marble fountains sang with crystalline water, and of the colorful flowers that were often planted in the windowsills of the homes of most of the residents.  
Looking at the area now, it was hard to believe that such a place existed—even here in Paris.  
I knocked lightly on the old wooden door, which turned out to resonate quite loudly; it must have been made of a heavier material than it looked. It had been battered with weather and a lot of use, and I was unsure whether or not anybody would even be residing in a building this desolate when the door swung open without warning.  
I was pulled hastily inside and thrown down onto a hard surface, the room pitch black after the door slammed back shut and locked behind me.  
“Ota, matches.“  
“Here.” I heard a sharp scrape and a small flame appeared in the room, finding its way at the top of a tall wax candle.  
Almost immediately, I was pulled up onto my feet and thrown violently against a hard wall. My head hit it bluntly and I very nearly blacked out.  
“Who in the hell are you, _morceau de merde?”_ A voice spat at me. I dazedly focused my gaze upon a blonde boy who looked to be about the age of 16, skinny but muscular, who had me pinned to the wall by my neck. As I was choking, I happened to notice that his shirt was covered in cheetah print.  
"I-I don't want any trouble, I swear--" I stammered at him.  
_"Tais toi,"_ the blonde young man hissed at me, pinning me violently against the wall. “Stop blabbering and give me one good reason why I shouldn't have Ota shoot you on the spot.”  
"I have a d-delivery!” I gasped, barely managing to squeak out my words in reply. “For Viktor N-Nikiforov—“  
“That’s what they all say!” His sharp sneer didn't recede one bit, and his menacingly silent partner stared me down with the piercing intensity of a bullet. _"Non,_ why would a Nip like you even have a single thing to do with _La Résistance_ in the first place? Dirty German-loving—“  
At this I immediately felt anger rise into my chest. In response, I frowned at the blonde and struggled against his grip. “I’ve spent most of my life here in Paris! My parents ran an inn in downtown until the Reich came and killed—“  
"What a sad tale. I cry for your loss." The blonde spat at me and waved his buddy over. "Ota, remove him.“  
The slightly older-looking young man named Ota moved forward, cracking the hands that were hidden under his black gloves. The younger, angry blonde stepped out of the way, just far enough that I could take in a deep breath, shove the blonde away, and pull the revolver from my coat pocket.  
“Listen, you two,” I panted, holding the gun straight at their heads, “I was given a letter to deliver to some guy named Viktor Nikiforov—to him and him alone, by a man named Yakov—“  
“Yakov?!” Both boys said in unison, a look of astonishment suddenly evident on their faces. “You’re one—“  
“For the last time, don’t ask, because I don’t know the answer!” I said, growing increasingly anxious by the moment. I clicked a bullet into place. “Either you two are going to let me go and finish my damn job, or we’re gonna have to get into a nasty fight over something that I honestly have no fucking clue about!”  
The two thugs looked at each other, surprised.  
“Okay, man. Just put the gun down,” Ota said placidly.  
“Otabek! We don’t know what the fuck this guy could be trying to do—“  
“Viktor can handle himself, Yuri. And besides, it’s not like some delivery guy like him is going to know who Yakov is without Yakov intentionally letting him know.”  
The other boy, apparently also named Yuri, growled as he backed away. “Fine, fine. But I’m blaming you if Viktor gets shot and the entire Resistance comes tumbling down on top of us.”  
Both boys turned and lead me down a dark hallway, prompting me to follow behind them in the dim candlelight. The hallways were nicely painted, I noticed, with fine pictures hung here and there—evidently someone had put a lot of money into the maintenance of this place, despite the dull exterior. Finally, we approached a large pair of wooden doors, finely carved and etched with _fleur de lis_ like the one on the seal of the envelope.  
The blonde Yuri irritably pounded on the door and yelled, _“Hé,_ Viktor! Some delivery guy is here for you and he’s got a letter from Yakov!”  
A few short moments later, the doors swung open to reveal a tall, graceful man illuminated by the moonlight pouring through his windows, a red bathrobe that had hastily been tied around him. Yuri and Otabek shoved me forward towards him, and I noticed his silver hair reached far down to his waist, and he was more beautiful than any of the sculptures I’d ever seen displayed at the Louvre.  
We stared at each other blankly for several awkward moments until he smiled at me. The heat ran up to my face immediately, and I was very glad that it was almost certainly too dark for him to see it.  
“Ah, you’re the one that Yakov sent, _oui?”_ The man named Viktor asked, reaching out a hand for me to shake. “It’s very nice of you to come. Apparently he asked four others as well, but from the looks of it, you’re the only one who figured out his directions or even survived the journey here.”  
“Yeah, and he’s loaded, too, Viktor,” Yuri grumbled, pointing at my pocket. “He almost shot us with his revolver.”  
“If I’d been so rudely assaulted upon entry, I’d probably try the same thing, _mon chaton en colère,”_ Viktor answered. “Come. Let us go to my office and discuss your payment.”  
I was so entranced that I didn’t even think twice about following him. He looked like the pictures of dancers I’d studied for years in the Opera, and he was so lovely, and kind. . .  
He turned and waved me close behind, calling, “Goodnight, Yuri and Otabek. Stay warm tonight.”  
_“Oui, oui,”_ Yuri grumbled, and the two shuffled back down the hallway, leaving me to follow Viktor in the opposite direction.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” Viktor asked, sitting across from me at a large wooden desk that matched the grandioseness of the doors I’d just seen. “I’m sorry about those two. They’re our bodyguards at this facility, and though they do a good job, they can sometimes be a bit severe.”  
I was too distracted by the room to even think twice about what he said. It looked as if there were a thousand paintings hung all across the walls, small statuettes dotting the surfaces of furniture, and an air of elegance radiated from the place like I hadn’t seen since the war broke out in the first place.  
“Huh?” I immediately asked, popping back to reality.  
Viktor laughed amusedly at me, and I felt the heat rise to my cheeks again. He was even more beautiful when he laughed—  
“I wonder, how did you manage to get here when you’re so easily distractible?” he asked, leaning back to light a fire in the fireplace behind his chair. I noticed he had a kettle of water ready to heat hanging above it. _"Non,_ I only joke. I don’t blame you for being distracted—there are many interesting things here to look at.”  
Despite all of the more important questions I probably should have asked, I inquired, “What is all of this? Where am I?”  
“You, my dear, uh. . . What is your name?”  
“Yuuri Katsuki—“  
“My dear Yuuri!” Viktor corrected himself. “You are sitting in the headquarters of the one and only _Résistance de Paris,_ amidst some of the finest paintings in the world. We’re protecting them from the Germans and housing them outside of the Louvre.”  
I was beyond bewildered. “W-what?”  
“Yes indeed, _monsieur._ There are many valuable artworks in this building here, as decrepit as it may appear externally.”  
For a long moment, I could do nothing but gape as I processed this, the items around me—even just him. Finally, I asked, “Who are you?”  
“As you probably already know, I am Viktor Nikiforov. I am the head of _La Résistance.”_  
_“La Résistance de Paris?”_  
“Yep.”  
“All of Paris?”  
“Indeed.”  
“Against the entire Third Reich?”  
“Essentially.”  
I stared at him speechlessly for an even longer moment. He was patient, however, and gave me my time, only interrupting my thoughts when he slid a tisane over to me along with a few sugar cubes.  
“Tell me a bit about yourself, Yuuri,” Viktor gently asked, stirring a bit of honey into his own cup. “Did you grow up here?”  
“I-uh,” I stammered, trying to remember anything interesting about myself. “My entire family was born and lived in Hasetsu, Japan, running a hot spring facility there until I was about 11.”  
“I see. Why did you leave?”  
“I had been taking ballet classes there with an old family friend named Minako until she secretly had a recruiter from the Paris Opera Ballet come and watch one of my performances. When I was offered a full ride scholarship to attend the conservatory, my family decided to pack up and move to Paris so I could continue my education.”  
Viktor’s eyes lit up and he nodded excitedly as he swallowed a big gulp of tea. _“Mon Dieu,_ a dancer! I thought you looked rather fit. I was in ballet, myself, for quite a time as a child, though I never was good enough to make it into the Opera Ballet. So I went into art, and here we are,” he answered, gesturing to the works around the room. “Anyway, what did your family do once you were here?”  
I was still imagining his slender legs in tights, and his long hair pulled back into a bun. _Dieu, aide-moi._ “Oh, uh, they ran a small bathhouse and inn close to downtown. I-it was pretty well-known until the war broke out—“  
“Don’t tell me; _Yuutopia?!”_ Viktor exclaimed eagerly. “That used to be my favorite place to bathe! Non, we probably ran into each other many times before now, huh?”  
“Perhaps,” I answered lightly, but I knew it wasn’t true; I would’ve remembered someone like him. Not to mention I was almost always in rehearsal.  
“So why are you doing this now? What happened to ballet?”  
“The war.”  
Viktor nodded knowingly. “Ah, I see. Hopefully you will see the stage sometime again in the future, non?”  
_“Je ne sais pas,”_ I replied, trying to focus myself away from his face. “Since my parents died, I will probably end up helping my sister.“  
“Your parents died?” Viktor interrupted quietly. “How?”  
“A German raid one night. My sister and I were hiding and they shot my parents for refusing to house their soldiers.”  
He stared at me in silence for several moments, stunned by the reply. _“Je suis désolé, monsieur.”_  
I shrugged. “Worse things have happened to better people.”  
The silver-haired man watched me for what seemed like hours, and I awkwardly sipped my tea in response, knowing fully well that I would embarrass myself again if I looked at him much longer.  
“Yuuri Katsuki, you work with the underground market, yes? And you’re comfortable avoiding Germans and their laws?”  
_“Oui,”_ I murmured meekly. There was no point in attempting to cover up the truth from a man who probably knew all of Paris like the back of his hand. “I have been doing so for years.”  
“I’m quite aware. We’ve been recommended to you by several members of _La Résistance,_ but weren’t sure how you’d initially respond to our job offer.”  
My interest was piqued and I looked up at him once again, his sky-blue eyes catching mine with surprising seriousness. “A job offer?”  
“Yes, Yuuri. We need help transporting a high-profile piece of artwork under the nose of the Reich. Your help will be paid beyond measure, but only after the job is completed, and the war won—which, hopefully, should be happening fairly quickly, if the Allies are saying anything true.”  
My mouth was hanging open once again and I barely managed to speak. “A piece of artwork? Me? Transport?”  
“I know it’s been one surprise after another for you tonight,” Viktor admitted, laughing lightly at my expression. “I don’t expect an answer from you immediately. You may take your time and decide.” At that moment, he raised his eyebrows. “By the way, did Yakov send a letter with you?”  
“Ah, y-yes,” I responded, practically shaking in my seat. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the wax-sealed letter, placing it in Viktor’s outstretched hand. His fingers touched mine as he brought it closer and opened the seal. I shivered.  
“H-how much of a reward?” I asked after several minutes of deliberation.  
“An equivalency of about one million USD, at the least.”  
I nearly fell out of my chair. “And what piece would I have to transport?”  
Viktor quietly unfolded the letter and slid it in front of me.  
A bold and flourishing script penned out two short words:  
_La Joconde_


	2. A Bit of a Dilemma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, y'all! I'm so sorry it took me so long to update--Finals Week was brutal, and I've been dealing with some health issues for the past month. I'm really hoping that I will be able to post more regularly during the summer, though!
> 
> This chapter is a bit more of plot set-up. . . Just bear with me, here. I've already begun work on some later chapters and I am very excited for where the story is headed! :)
> 
> Anyway, I love hearing your comments, so please feel free to leave them! Enjoy!!

"Yuuri. Katsuki. I _cannot_ believe you."  
“Mari, listen—“  
“I cannot _fucking—_ “  
“Mari, please—“  
My sister was so angry that she had switched over into our native Japanese and had pulled the rag from her hair, beating me on the arms with it. “We are already straddling the line here! Those Germans could come in at any moment and kill us just like mom and dad—“  
_"Mari,"_ I said exasperatedly. "Just give me a chance to explain, okay?"  
Her face, red with emotion, stared lividly at me. "Oh, you’d better explain."  
I let out a long sigh, moving away from her towel's radius at the other end of the table, and took a seat. She did the same across from me, lighting a cigarette with a huff.  
I'd only just gotten back from the headquarters of La Résistance--or, as the blonde Yuri begrudgingly called it, the _Patinoire,_ because of how cold it got inside at night--and daylight had just broken the damp darkness. Mari had been pacing just inside the doorway waiting for me to come home, as I usually got back during the earliest hours of the morning.  
I was exhausted. After a long period of mental deliberation and small talk with Viktor, I'd finally worked up the courage to accept the offer. (Actually, I found it even more difficult to decline, especially after just, well, being around him.)  
"They want me to transport an artwork, Mari. It pays so well that I couldn’t refuse."  
"From German lines? We agreed that we'd only take jobs from unaffiliated parties, so that you stay out of more trouble than you can manage--"  
"It's _one_ work of art, Mari, and it's not _from_ German lines, just _through_ German lines--"  
"What one piece of artwork on this planet is so valuable that the leader of the French Resistance is asking you to smuggle it directly through enemy territory, where you're more than likely to be overtaken?"  
"The Mona Lisa."  
Her jaw dropped, and the half-gone cigarette fell stupidly out of her mouth. "The-- _huh?"_  
"One _million_ USD, Mari. At the least." I reached over and put out the butt in the ashtray so it didn't catch the table on fire. "To move _one_ painting."  
She sat there, flabbergasted, for several long moments. Finally she stammered, "Who on Earth decided that you would be the one to do it?"  
"I have no idea. Apparently I'm well-known in _La Résistance_ and was highly recommended." I brought my hand to my chin pensively. "Though I can't help but think that it might have been--"  
"I'm going to _kill_ that little Thai piece of shit!” Mari roared then, slamming her hand down on the table. _“Phichit—“_  
Her accusation wasn’t necessarily unjustified. Phichit was a good friend that studied ballet with me in school, and now he boarded in one of our rooms at the inn since he didn’t have a dormitory to stay in because of the Occupation. He was notably social and made himself useful as a working hand for us at the inn, and as a communications agent for the Resistance; he’d constantly proposed the idea to me that I should join the league in the past.  
I had been planning to talk to him and see whether or not he’d been the one to pass my name around to the leader of the movement, but given how exhausted I was, I’d decided to ask later in the afternoon. But Mari, in her fit of rage, stormed loudly down the hall and around the corner and began beating violently against his door.  
“Phichit Chulanont, you better have a _good_ reason—“  
“Mari!” I called, running after her and grabbing her arm. “Stop, you’re going to wake—“  
The door suddenly opened and Phichit looked at us wearily, speaking through a broad yawn. He was still in his old, ragged nightclothes, and his hair was ruffled into a mess. “Huh? It’s so early, Mari—“  
“Isn’t it? Isn’t it also a little early to send my little brother to his deathbed?!”  
I sighed, my hand exasperatedly covering my forehead. There was no reasoning with her in such a state.  
Phichit looked at me confusedly. “What? He’s standing right there.”  
“You know good and well—“  
“I really, actually don’t—“  
“One of your damned Resistance cronies convinced him to—“  
“Don’t act like I know everybody in the Resistance! Do you know how big this city is?!“  
“He’s going to smuggle _La Joconde_ through German lines!“  
“Listen, I have never even heard of _La Joconde,_ not to mention of whatever you’re talking about—“  
I muttered a few curse words under my breath and turned around, walking back towards my room at the other end of the floor and up the stairs, leaving the two of them to scream at each other until every other resident that might be staying in the inn was sure to be awake. Neither of them even noticed I’d left, for that matter, and they continued to argue until I loudly slammed and locked my bedroom door.  
My jacket was soaked from the rain, as were the majority of my clothes, making me cold on top of already being exhausted. So, I did the logical thing: I stripped down to nothing and put on a clean pair of underpants, flung myself onto my bed, and rolled tightly into the fluffiest comforters I could find around my bedroom. And within only a few minutes, despite the morning sunlight and the loud voices I heard arguing through the walls, I slipped into a warm, comfortable sleep.

I awoke later in the afternoon with a start.  
My heart was racing. My skin was covered in a cold sweat. I felt a crushing, crippling pressure wrap itself around my chest, and I couldn’t bear to lay in bed any longer. Barely wrapped in the old bathrobe I grabbed off the floor, I rushed out of my bedroom and through the inn, looking desperately for Mari.  
When I found her, it was as she was closing the door to a bathing room. Her eyes widened in surprise as I ran up to her.  
"Yuuri?!"  
"Nee-san--"  
She quickly outstretched her arms, and I practically slammed into her chest.  
"Deep breaths," Mari said calmly, wrapping me tightly in her grasp. "What's the matter?”  
I was on the verge of hyperventilating; I tried to focus on the scents of tobacco and soap that I could smell on her shirt. "I-I can't believe I—M-Mona Lisa--"  
She shushed me then. "Non, _mon petit frère._ Slow down. Think of breathing."  
It had been a while since my last panic attack. Right after my parents were killed about four years ago, my already-difficult anxiety disorder got intolerably bad. Every time I heard a gunshot, or even just saw a German--which was unfortunately common, as they had just begun their occupation--I would have horrible reactions.  
Thankfully, though, Mari was much older than I was, and she spent a lot of time helping to raise me as a young child, especially when my parents were busy with the inn and customers. She’d gotten quite accustomed to my attacks and helping me deal with them, and I’d gotten a lot better over the past few years. Being out of such a competitive environment with the ballet school probably helped a bit, too.  
Now, it was only really odd things that ever set me off. When the water went out for two weeks. That time I burned my hand cooking rice on the stove. When a customer called our inn a "shithole" and stormed out without paying for any of his rent or meals; he owed a few hundred dollars. There was also the time a man broke into the inn and tried to steal our gold out of the safe in my room; even then, I didn't have an attack—at least, not until after I’d shot him in the head.  
But this was unprecedented. I'd felt next to no strain when I fell asleep, unless I was too tired to have realized it; still, the reaction was severe enough that I couldn’t help but wonder if I had just gotten really good at ignoring it.  
Mari coaxed me down to the point where my breathing was a bit more normal, then let go of me and pointed back towards the kitchen. I obeyed, turning around and making my way to the old dining table, and I took my seat in the chair closest to my bedroom, per usual. She handed me a glass of water and a towel to wipe my face.  
“Now, Yuuri,” she began, taking her own seat and pulling out a cigarette. “We have a bit of a problem.”  
I looked up at her from the glass, unsure of what she could mean. As far as I was concerned, I figured I’d just go tell Mr. Nikiforov that I was backing out the deal later that night. She was probably going to tell me about something to do with the maintenance of the building again.  
“So. Here’s the thing.” She lit her cigarette with a few clicks of her lighter, taking a long puff and exhaling. “I know you’re probably thinking that you’re going to go and cancel your deal with the head of the Resistance.” Oh, no. “Well, it’d be kind of hard to do that at this point.”  
“Why?”  
“Because he’s here.”  
_“What?”_  
“Yes. I just took him back to the bath.”  
My jaw was at my knees. _“No.”_  
Her eyebrow lifted. “Yes? He showed up an hour or so ago, and suggested that it might be easier to make the transfer if he stays here in the meantime. And I figured that since you were so gung-ho earlier, and you were so confident, that it’d be a reasonable choice.”  
I didn’t even answer. Instead, I’d leapt out of my chair and sprinted back to the public bath, throwing the door wide open.  
She hadn’t been lying. As he relaxed in a corner of the built-in hot tub, Viktor was looking curiously back at me, surprised by the sudden opening of the door.  
All I could do was stare.  
“Ah, Yuuri!” He said happily upon recognition, standing up in the bath in greeting. I wasn’t sure if he was aware that he was completely and utterly naked. “It’s so nice to see you!”  
I forced myself to look up at his face, noticing that my throat was completely dry when I swallowed.  
“Come, don’t be shy! It’s a public bath, _non?”_ He asked, climbing out and coming towards me.  
“Uh.”  
_“Oui, oui!_ We can discuss—“  
Before I could stop myself, I turned on my heel and flew back down the hallway and up my stairs, not stopping until I was once again in my own bedroom. I locked the handle and slid down against the back of the door, head in my hands, feeling like I was about to vomit.  
I sat there for a few minutes trying to calm my racing thoughts until I heard Viktor and Mari talking in the kitchen.  
“Oh goodness. Mr. Nikiforov, I’m so sorry—“  
“Call me Viktor, please,” he kindly corrected her. “And it’s quite all right. He’s a shy one, isn’t he?”  
Mari sighed. “He is. He was already a bit stressed, too, when I told him you were back in the bath.”  
Viktor laughed at this; it was bubbling and loud, like a drop of light against the darkness. “Ah, I see! I was wondering if he was just that shocked to see me.”  
“I’m not sure. In any case, he’ll have to come out soon to get started on cooking dinner. It’s his turn tonight. We can all sit down and discuss the situation in a bit, yes?”  
_Shit._  
“Wonderful. Well, I’m going to go finish up. I’m so sorry, but I think my hair just about got this robe soaked through in the back—“  
“Non, don’t worry. I’ll have Phichit bring you another one in a few minutes.”  
“Thank you, Mari. I’ll see you all in a bit.”  
His footsteps faded away, and I sat there in silence, no thoughts forming in my head whatsoever.  
I nearly jumped out of my skin when Mari banged on my door a few moments later. “Yuuri, get dressed and come start on dinner. I went out and got the stuff for you to make katsudon like you wanted, remember?”  
_“Oui,”_ I sighed.  
“Good. Now hurry up, before the pork goes bad.”  
As I heard her walk back down the staircase, I tried to figure out what in the world I was going to do.

Later, after I’d changed into one of my old cooking outfits, I worked nervously in the kitchen.  
Mari had kindly decided to park herself at the table with a book as I prepared the meal, and Phichit was in and out of the room as he went about doing some menial chores around the inn. It wasn’t until I was breading and frying the pork tenderloins that Viktor finally came in, dressed in another one of our traditional Japanese robes, his hair pulled into a towel on the top of his head.  
“That smells wonderful!” he said enthusiastically, curiously walking up beside me to look over my shoulder. “What on earth is it?”  
“Katsudon,” I replied distractedly, keeping my eyes focused on the hot oil I was working with, and trying to ignore the heat in my face. “It was one of my mother’s recipes.”  
“Ah, I see! In that case, I am even more excited to try it.” His hand fell on my shoulder, lightly squeezing it. “I’m sorry if I surprised you earlier, Yuuri—I didn’t mean to intrude or make you uncomfortable.”  
“No, no, no!” I said quickly, waving my hands and looking timidly up at him. “You’re fine! I just didn’t expect to see you, is all!” Out of the corner of my eye, I could tell Mari was smirking at me. If Viktor hadn’t been standing there, I would’ve thrown a fork at her.  
“Well, I’m very glad to hear that. Mari, what are you reading?” He asked her, finally turning and letting go of my shoulder. I felt myself exhale for what seemed like the first time in forever. The two of them got into a discussion about old French literature, and I was extremely relieved by the break.  
Finally, after about ten more minutes of frying, pouring, and serving, I finally called Phichit to eat and set down four bowls of fresh katsudon onto the tabletop.  
_“Bon appétit,”_ I smiled, taking my seat.  
The four of us happily dug into the dish. I hadn’t even realized how hungry I was, as I hadn’t eaten since dinner the night before, until my entire bowl was just about empty. Mari even conceded the rest of her uneaten bowl to me, and I added it to my own without much hesitance.  
When the four of us were finished, Phichit leaned back in his chair and burped, his expression looking quite satisfied. “Thanks for the meal, Yuuri!”  
“Indeed!” Viktor reiterated. “вкусно!”  
Feeling my face beginning to warm up again, I scratched my neck. “It’s no problem.” At that, I began to collect the dirty dishes until my sister smacked my hands away, taking them to the sink herself.  
Viktor turned to me, pulling the towel from his hair and combing through his long silver locks with his fingers. “Now, I feel it’s time that we begin to discuss our business endeavor, non?”  
I nodded, internally making sure that I was properly breathing. Still, looking at him now, I didn’t find myself to be nearly as stressed out about the prospect as I was only a while earlier.  
He began talking at length about the situation. “As you know, the Louvre has been overtaken by those damned Germans—but, thanks to the efforts of several brave Resistance members, we managed to rescue several of our most valuable pieces,” Viktor said, gesturing at Phichit, who modestly simpered as a result. “Mr. Chulanont himself helped us get several Van Gogh works to the _Patinoire,_ for example. But, as you are probably aware, _La Joconde_ is about twice as famous as any other work in the face of Western society—which is why we decided to appeal to an outside source of expertise for assistance.”  
I listened to him ramble on for several more minutes about the location of the piece, where he thought might be best to hide it, when he thought it’d be best to move it. And while I tried my best to pay attention to the topic at hand, I kept getting distracted as I watched him redo his braid as he talked.  
“So, what do you think?” He finally asked me, looking up from his finished hairstyle.  
I stared blankly at him. “I, uh. That sounds good.”  
“Which one sounds good?” Viktor laughed. Phichit stared at me, eyebrows raised, as he listened to the two of us. “Unless you need to think about it for a bit longer?”  
Nodding enthusiastically, I said, “Give me a bit of time.”  
“Very well—just let me know what you decide.” He stood up then and outstretched his hand; I took it, but he moved down close to my ear. “I am very excited to be working with you, Yuuri. Thank you for agreeing to do this.”  
“No, t-thank you,” I replied dazedly, knowing completely well that my cheeks were bright pink.  
He clapped the back of my hand, squeezed my fingers, and then turned to head back towards his bedroom. “And thank you again for dinner!”  
When he had shut the door behind himself, I let my head drop against the table with a thud. Phichit empathetically patted my shoulder.  
“I’m in deep shit, aren’t I?” I asked him, laughing despite myself.  
“Yes, my friend,” he agreed, laughing along with me. “Yes, you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French translations:
> 
> 1\. Patinoire--ice rink  
> 2\. La Résistance--the Resistance  
> 3\. La Joconde--a play on the last name of Mona Lisa, and what she is commonly referred to in French  
> 4\. Mon petit frère--my little brother  
> 5\. Oui--yes  
> 6\. Non--no
> 
> Japanese translations: (these will be in Romaji for the sake of simplicity.)  
> 1\. Nee-san--big sister  
> 2\. Katsudon--pork cutlet bowl; but you already knew that ;)
> 
> Russian translations:  
> 1\. вкусно!--Vkusno!!!
> 
> See you next chapter!!!
> 
> Hit me up on tumblr [here!](http://takidaka.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry this chapter was a bit boring. . . Gotta set up the story a bit. Things will start to get interesting very soon! :)
> 
>  
> 
> French translations:
> 
> 1\. Monsieur--sir  
> 2\. Fleur de lis--flower of lily  
> 3\. Morceau de merde--piece of shit  
> 4\. Tais toi--shut up; be quiet  
> 5\. Non-no  
> 6\. La Résistance--The Resistance (the name formally used by the Paris Resistance)  
> 7\. Hé--hey!  
> 8\. Oui--yes  
> 9\. Mon chaton en colère--my angry kitten  
> 10\. Mon Dieu--my God!  
> 11\. Dieu, aide-moi--God, help me!  
> 12\. Je ne sais pas--I don't know  
> 13\. Je suis désolé--I am sorry  
> 14\. La Joconde--a play on the last name of Mona Lisa, and what she is commonly referred to in French  
>    
> Russian translations:
> 
> 1\. Спасибо--thank you  
> 2\. Давай--davai! :)
> 
> Other notes:
> 
> 1\. Nip--an offensive slur used against the Japanese during WW2, (along with Jap) deriving from Nippon
> 
> Thanks for reading! Hit me up on tumblr [here!](http://takidaka.tumblr.com/)


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